


Happy Birthday, Joan

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, F/F, One Shot, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11884896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera brings a gift to her former mentor.





	Happy Birthday, Joan

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Joan's birthday, I decided to write this. Special shoutout to @thelexfiles that Joan's birthday was this week!

Governor Bennett strolls down these concrete halls, exuding a confidence unseen as deputy. Under the crook of her arm, there rests a white box held together by a crimson ribbon. It's useless to wrap it up, even more useless to forget the score between them.

She utilizes the cover of night as an excuse to fuel her strung out addiction, her anger and her frustration. The graveyard shift turns a blind eye to the corruption that infects the prison compound.

With the weight of responsibility crashing down on her bird-like shoulders, she has no time to entertain the twisted and divines. Effectively, Vera has ignores Ferguson for the entirety of the day. Until now.

She refuses to be a pawn.

She's hardened her heart though it's difficult to say good bye to sorrow. To what once was.

Rather than knocking, Miss Bennett makes keen use of her authority. Ruler of this domain has its perks.

"Governor, to what do I owe the honour? You experience an aptitude for ignorance and turning away from the inmate's needs."

This time around, Ferguson ignores her. Scarred fingers caress the spine of a book. A nail traces each and every line. Vera doesn't care for the context, the hidden meaning, the plot that's driven her here.

Vera doesn't let it get to her, but it does. Words, spun as fine as silk, get under her skin. The tension in her jaw speaks to this. She stiffens. Builds herself up as some grand monument despite her small, meek nature.

"I know what today is," Bennett announces in a mechanical fashion. She states this matter-of-factly.

"Now, _Vera_..." Joan Ferguson looks up, her finger serving as a temporary bookmark. Her back presses into the teal wall. Freedom is nigh; Lady Iustitia will be hers. "You must work on your one-liners. There's no tact to them. I'm quite the capable mentor which leads me to believe that you learned _nothing_ from our time together."

The Governor's mouth twitches. Diamond eyes shine. There's a glimmer to them. She pulls the box away from under the safety of her arm and sets it on the edge of the bed.

"More teal? I'm flattered," Joan quips sardonically. The dryness in her tone makes her voice heavy. It's a crushing weight, coming down, down, _down_.

Now, she expresses her interest by casting the book aside. Her killing hands rest in her lap. A well-defined brow shoots up, the rest of her face an impassive mask.

Vera resembles a child poking a lion at the zoo: throwing stones, sneaking past the chainlink fence.

"I didn't forget. Open it."

The ever cunning Joan Ferguson looks up.

"Why should I give you that pleasure?"

"It's not for me; it's for you."

There's no tongue involved.

Inquisitively, Joan tilts her head. Each action speaks of a higher motive: some larger gain to be had in this petty game. For the sake of leverage, she opens this offering.

Inside, atop a bed of crinkled tissue paper, there's a vintage record. Oh, Stravinsky. _The Rake's Progress_ stares back at her, black on black. The vinyl begs to be played, much like the way Vera used to.

"Rather than giving you this, I thought about sending it to you, smashed to pieces,” Vera admits.

Despite her borrowed cold demeanor, she remains truthful. She attempts to sting with her verbal strike.

"Why?" Joan inquires. Simply. Distastefully. Curiously.

"Because I'm not the same as you," she replies and keeps her hands hidden in her pockets. There may as well be stones there to drag her under.

An apex predator's frosty stare focuses on the crowns: temptation within sight.

"I was never saner," Joan finally drawls. Repeats Shadow's Aria.

Regardless of the admission, Shadow's Departure looms in the back of her mind.

_I burn; I freeze._

"Happy Birthday, Joan."

The look in Vera's eyes seems to say: _I didn't forget._

Without making it a point to linger, Vera pivots on heel. She approaches the cell door.

“Miss Bennett?”

Vera makes the mistake of looking over her shoulder, spying genuine gratitude.

_No, she's a master manipulator. This isn't real. None of this is._

“--Thank you.”

The smile on her disciple's part is forced, strained, riddled with tension that is doomed to haunt her forevermore. She leaves Joan with the record that she traces in a constant, laconic circle.

From one circle of Hell to another.

 


End file.
